


OTP Challenge Part 2 - Unlikely Partnership

by orphan_account



Series: Mediscout OTP Challenge [2]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Banter, Battle, Gameplay, Gen, M/M, Special Privileges, Ubercharge, Victory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 03:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3312551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's another blast from the past: a Mediscout fic written five days after I started learning TF2 (and, in fact, I learned the game specifically so that I could write this fic, for accuracy.) </p>
<p>That was a while back.</p>
<p>Anyway, here it is, straying far, far from its original prompt, "cuddling somewhere." Scout, for once, earns an Ubercharge. </p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Medic glanced down the barrel, checking its internal workings idly. Charging out of the tunnel would give enemies the chance to shoot him down without mercy, an unappealing option. The Sentry could defend him, but not from every angle, and the control point was so very close, too—</p>
<p>He was interrupted from his reverie by a nudge to his shoulder and the sudden onset of rapid chatter, thick Boston accent interfering with Medic’s internal flow of thought. Scout scuffed a toe in the dirt as he faced Medic, gripping his baseball bat with both hands and shivering with an excess of energy. “Hey, Doc, whatcha doin’? We got, uh—” He went silent as the next update crackled through his bulky earpiece. “—we got thirty seconds left, wanna go kick their asses?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	OTP Challenge Part 2 - Unlikely Partnership

_Verdammte Frau._

_She dispenses instructions from behind her desk, watching us like a spider in its web._

Medic was prone to pondering the mystery of the Administrator during the duller moments of battle. When he was crouching behind an obstacle to let his health replenish or striding along behind a companion to establish an Ubercharge, it was hard not to wonder about the woman who assigned both sides to a needless war. Now the thought recurred in the midst of enemy fire, filling his mind as bullets whined past his head and punctured the fabric of his labcoat.

_Inconvenient for us, but not for her._

Medic pelted into a tunnel to conceal himself, tucking himself into a corner and fiddling with a few dials on the Medigun to repair its calibration. The Engineer, dutifully whacking a sentry with his wrench, hummed a merry cowboy tune to himself, greeting Medic with a nod before returning his attention to his equipment.

_What has she to lose?_

Above all, Medic had come to dislike the Administrator’s voice, that eerie haughty intonation that always sounded exactly the same. He suspected that she sat at her desk with an array of switches, activating recordings of her voice to flow through the teams’ earpieces. If nothing else, he admired her organizational skills, distributing the correct signal to the appropriate team at the right time; but how frustrating, that Medic would never know her true intentions. Enigmas of all types were bound to vex him. It was in his nature.

His next thoughts were drowned out by a crackling in his earpiece — “mission ends in sixty seconds!” — very well, one minute remaining, and the team would make the most of it.

Medic would see to that.

Ninety percent, announced the small meter on the barrel of his Medigun. It would require only a few seconds more to reach its full potential, and the sound of voices and rapid thudding footsteps heralded an incoming Ubercharge candidate.

Or not. He heard the familiar thick accent of his heavyset friend, but the Russian was accompanied by a different Medic already, one of the many duplicates of himself that the respawn system produced and removed with equal and dispassionate frequency. Worse yet, both were already glowing with the bright metallic sheen of Ubercharge, blasting ahead out of the tunnel to lay waste to the opposing team.

Medic sighed, running a gloved hand over the barrel of his Medigun. No more combatants were likely to emerge from the tunnel now. Instead, they would all be closing in on the control point, brutally driving away the opposing team’s claim upon it. All well and good for them, but Medic was useless when his teammates were out of reach. Hypothetically, he could top off his Ubercharge on the Engineer, but what would be the point? The Engineer constructed sentries and dispensers and teleporters, and only defended himself out of necessity or a sudden urge for vengeance. He would not go catapulting into enemy territory and mow down oncoming foes.

Wasting the charge on himself was not an option. Medic could do no damage that way, and with less than a minute to spare, he was feeling selfless enough to spend the charge on a teammate, rather than hoard it for himself for those precious eight seconds of invulnerability.

He glanced down the barrel, checking its internal workings idly. Charging out of the tunnel would give enemies the chance to shoot him down without mercy, an unappealing option. The Sentry could defend him, but not from every angle, and the control point was so very close, too—

He was interrupted from his reverie by a nudge to his shoulder and the sudden onset of rapid chatter, thick Boston accent interfering with Medic’s internal flow of thought. Scout scuffed a toe in the dirt as he faced Medic, gripping his baseball bat with both hands and shivering with an excess of energy. “Hey, Doc, whatcha doin’? We got, uh—” He went silent as the next update crackled through his bulky earpiece. “—we got thirty seconds left, wanna go kick their asses?”

Medic paused, evaluating Scout. His ear was still ringing from the Administrator’s voice inside his head — he’d calibrated the earpiece incorrectly this morning and made it louder than it needed to be, and the inconspicuous little microphone was difficult to extract and adjust without a forceps or great patience. He shook his head to dispel the sensation, looking back at the runner, who was now bouncing on the balls of his feet and shifting the bat from hand to hand, hyperactive as usual. The Bonk certainly did not help that condition.

"Doc, come _on_ , I’m not gonna go out dere an’ do it alone, I can’t dodge all those guns.” Scout’s face suddenly fell. No point in pretending. “I’m outta ammo. You gotta help.”

Medic sighed. Pathetic, but this was no time to judge. “Very vell. Stand still.”

Miraculously enough, Scout obeyed, gripping the baseball bat with one hand like a lifeline and slapping his thigh as the Medigun’s healing influence flowed through him. The waves of glowing colored power might’ve been magic, as far as Scout knew, but it was the kind of magic that tingled up his spine and felt like a cold shower on a hot day. The good kind. He had no idea how Medic made this stuff work, but he _did_ , and it was incredible. “Feels great, Doc. Aw, thanks.”

"You’re velcome."

"Hey, you gonna Oober-charge me now? I mean, you got nobody else around, an’ there’s only a little bit of time left, an’ c’mon, Doc, _please_ _._ ”

"Scout, allow me a moment." Medic gestured to the warfare happening outside the tunnel. An enemy Demoman was approaching, hurling grenades and stickybombs and Gaelic curses with equal vigor. The sentry’s deadly aim felled the Scotsman, but not before the inside of the tunnel was coated in explosives, detonating one by one and spraying shards of shrapnel. Engineer hurtled past, one hand on his hat and clutching the wrench in the other, and somersaulted around the bend of the tunnel in a move that Medic was entirely sure he would never see again.

Working solely on instinct, Scout contributed by yanking Medic out of danger as the bombs detonated, arms wrapping firmly around his waist as he hauled him backwards. He hadn’t counted on Medic being as solid as he was, but it worked. “There y’go, doc, it’s okay, dey ain’t gonna get us—” He gave Medic’s waist a quick squeeze, spying an opportunity. “Wanna go?”

The Administrator interjected again, her voice curiously eager yet detached, just like always. “Mission ends in ten seconds.”

"Ve go _now._ " Without waiting for another reminder, Medic aimed the barrel of the gun directly at Scout and yanked the trigger without hesitation. Scout lunged forward in a burst of speed, rounding the bend and readying his bat over his shoulder.

Observing from a distance, Engie waved at the pair as they passed, getting to his feet and dusting off his overalls. “Go get ‘em!”

"Ja, doch—" Medic was too focused on the battle to return the greeting in full, instead keeping his eyes on the terrain ahead and on Scout.

That Ubercharge would not be a waste.

As that bright exhilarating glow engulfed Scout and he swung his bat at a passing Pyro, knocking them to the ground in a spray of flame, he felt an odd sense of certainty. He was gonna get to that control point in time to make his team proud. And he’d never be able to do it without Medic’s help. It was weird, to be thinkin’ sappy thoughts about the doc as he bashed in the enemy’s skulls with a bat, but he kind of liked it, that sort of reassuring feeling he got from knowing Medic was right behind him with the medicine cannon. Guess all that mad science was good for somethin’ after all.

The sentimentality didn’t stop him from distributing his trademark insults, though, and as he delivered a resounding _thwack_ to an enemy Soldier’s helmet, he couldn’t help but hurl a taunting jeer, a spray of dirt and gravel rising up as the Soldier’s body made impact with the ground. “How’s _dat_ feel, wimp? Ya barely put up a fight!”  Scout’s opinion of the Soldier didn’t extend far beyond ‘moron with a rocket launcher,’ and he was even less kind towards the enemy version. “What a dumbass. Dis is downright insultin’, how easy you’re makin’ it for me!”

Medic rolled his eyes and continued to follow his target, only raising his voice when Scout’s pace exceeded his own and he dashed too far ahead or swerved in an unexpected direction. The Ubercharge was of no use if it wasn’t aimed at a target, and Medic had often found that Scout’s zeal and enthusiasm tended to outweigh his common sense. This was no exception. _“_ _Get back in zhe stream, dummkopf!”_

"Who ya callin’ dumb-cough?" Scout circled back, jumping back into the Medigun’s beam with a triumphant whoop. There really was nothin’ like this. He had to talk Medic into ubering him again sometime. Maybe making the doc some dinner again might help. Or getting caught in life-or-death situations with him, that had worked too. "Almost there, doc!"

"Ve only have a moment—" And then the Ubercharge expired, right on the brink of entry into the control point. Medic stared at the barrel of his gun for a moment, then grabbed his saw and ran for his life, following Scout as the young mercenary scrambled to get on top of the point.

"Doc! Behind ya!" Scout shouted a warning, leaping up onto the stairwell and then hurling himself back down again so his bat collided at full speed with an enemy Spy’s head, just as the Frenchman uncloaked in a whoosh and a puff of smoke. The Spy collapsed, tumbling to the ground in a heap of fragile limbs, and Medic could only clutch his saw and threaten with a quick thrust forward as the next foe advanced upon the point.

"Victory!" As time expired, the sound of canned cheers and applause mixed in Medic’s ears with the crackling of power that surged through the triumphant team’s weapons, his Medigun glowing with bright energy as he took it back in hand. He had worked out long ago that the Administrator rewarded the victors with a boost to their weapons upon each win, though Medic’s offers to help Engineer dissect the weapons and find out how the system worked had gone completely unheeded. The amiable Texan was the type to leave well enough alone, much to Medic’s discontentment. But as Engineer sauntered into the control point to join the other victors, holding his wrench and lugging along his toolbox, Medic gave him a courteous nod. After all, he had contributed to the win.

Heavy pushed his way into the room and swept Medic up in a crushing bear hug, bellowing something in Russian in the process, and clapped him on the shoulder once he’d set him down again. “Good work, doktor! You are genius!”

"I vouldn’t say zhat. You didn’t vatch me vhen I vas cornered by zhat Soldier earlier." Whether or not it was the same Soldier that Scout had knocked out with the bat, Medic wasn’t certain, but it was somehow rewarding to imagine that it was. "But danke, mein Freund."

By then Heavy had lumbered off to congratulate the others for a hard day’s work, and Medic searched the group for the faces of the original team. After years spent fighting together, he had learned to differentiate the core group of nine mercenaries from their ephemeral duplicates, a talent which a few of them still lacked. Medic had once watched Soldier reprimand three different Scouts for a misdemeanor that the original Scout had committed. He had thought it hilarious at the time; Soldier had not.

He was roused from this reverie by a hand prodding his shoulder, which belonged to Scout — the original Scout, the one he had just Ubercharged, who was now wearing a massive grin and holding a newly bloodstained baseball bat. Without any form of warning, Scout wrapped his arms around Medic, holding him in a hug that was at least gentler than Heavy’s, if not more pleasant. “Good job, Doc. We actually did it!”

"Let go of me." Medic struggled free, watching Scout’s face fall as his embrace was rejected. Then, in an unusual pang of conscience, the doctor grasped Scout’s bandaged wrist and gave it a quick squeeze. "You did vell, Scout. Don’t run out of ammunition again."

"Not gonna." Scout wiped his baseball bat clean on his pants, which prompted a grimace from Medic, then stashed it back in his messenger bag, "Dat was fantastic. You gonna Oober-charge me again sometime?"

“ _Über_ charge.” Medic emphasized the sound of the umlaut, trying to teach Scout the correct pronunciation. His dedication to hopeless tasks sometimes knew no bounds. “It is called zhe _Über_ charge. Not… vhatever you are trying to say.”

True to form, Scout repeated it incorrectly. “Youber-charge?”

"Nein. _Über_ charge.”

"Ewber-charge. Got it." Scout beamed. "Tomorrow, maybe?"

"Fine." At this point it was simpler to agree than to argue. By now the team was traipsing out of the control point, heading back towards Resupply and exiting the arena to head back to the base. Medic packed up his saw and followed along, sliding it into its slot on the Medipack and securing the latch with a click. "At least ve von."

"Aw, don’t say it like dat, Doc." Undeterred, Scout slung his arm around the taller man’s shoulders, jogging to keep up with the quick pace Medic had set. "I loved it. Feels pretty great."

"Vhat?"

"The Ewber-charge, I mean. Makes me feel like a million bucks."

Medic adjusted his glasses, heading down the rickety wooden stairs. “I’m glad.”

Scout fell into line behind him, darting along happily, occasionally running ahead and then turning back to stay near him. “Hey, how long did it take ya to make the Ewber-charge? I mean, I know ya had it ready within a coupla months after comin’ here, but— did ya start den, or were ya workin’ on it for a while before dat?”

"Vhy all of zhe sudden qvestions?" Medic stopped and faced him, the Medigun tucked under his arm as he gripped its barrel defensively. "You have never expressed interest in my vork before."

"Sure I did, ya just never listened. Always a whole lotta ‘Get outta dere, Scout’ or ‘Leave me alone, Scout’ whenever I tried to stop by. Dis is one a’ da first times I’ve gotten ya ta even talk to me." Scout shrugged, holding out his hands in an expansive gesture of frustration. "Just tryin’ ta make conversation, alright?"

Medic grumbled, then started up again down the hall, boots leaving a path of imprints in the soft dirt. “It is my life’s vork.”

"Hey!" Scout’s face lit up. "Ya actually did it! Ya did what you were hopin’ ta do for your whole life! Me, I’m never gonna get dat. After a coupla years of bashin’ people’s heads in with a baseball bat, I don’t think I’m gonna get to play in the major leagues. One wrong move and I’m gonna be hittin’ the catcher insteada da ball, just outta instinct. Den I’m gonna be fired, and so much for _dat._ " The stream of consciousness kept on going as Scout emerged from the tunnel into daylight with Medic following close behind. "Ya ever gonna sell your stuff? Bet ya could make millions."

"Zhe pursuit of zhe science is its own revard." Medic sighed, resenting himself for even bothering to listen to Scout’s mindless babbling. "Besides, vhen I joined zhe company, I signed a contract telling me zhat I could not ever sell my discoveries. I zhink zhat if I tried, zhere is a clause zhat allows zhem to execute me. And zhey vould."

"Well, what’s the problem with dat? They kill ya, ya pop back up in Respawn, you’re fine, end a’ story."

"Zhey could erase me from zhe Respawn system."

Scout was silent.

"And zhat is vhy I try not to offend our employers."

\- - -

The walk back to the base was mostly quiet. Medic and Scout were the last to arrive, and filed into the common room with matching glum expressions — after years of dying and being near-instantly revived, the thought of permanent death was unsettling to them both. But the room was filled with the other seven mercenaries, who were obviously enjoying themselves, and it was hard to keep a bad mood when Pyro was making popcorn. Unfortunately, Pyro’s method of making popcorn consisted of throwing handfuls of kernels into the air and dousing them with the flamethrower; Engineer was trying desperately to contain the kernels in a metal pot, Sniper was catching them in midair, and Soldier’s bevy of raccoons were scurrying around on the floor and gnawing on the singed corn remains. Scout shed his bag and earpiece and rushed off to join the fray, but Medic found himself a quiet seat on the sofa instead, pulling out a cleaning cloth and beginning to polish the accumulated grime and gore off his saw.

His newfound peace and quiet did not last for long. With a thud and a happy sigh, Scout abruptly situated himself in the seat beside Medic, spilling a trail of kernels on his way there. “Hey, doc. Want some popcorn?”

Medic declined.

"Okay den." Scout shoved a handful into his mouth, chewing open-mouthed in a way that Medic found grotesque. "Whaddaya doin’?"

"Polishing zhe saw. If you keep chewing like zhat, I’ll use it on you."

"Got it." Scout mumbled through the half-chewed kernels, making a definite attempt to keep his mouth closed. One of the raccoons scampered up and sat on its hind legs, begging for food with its creepy little paws folded, but Scout nudged it away with the toe of his sneaker. "Get away from dere, Sergeant Rabies. Dat ain’t for you."

_"Sergeant Rabies?"_

"Heard Soldier callin’ it dat the other day." Scout shrugged. "Not what I’d name a pet coon, but I dunno." He offered the bowl of popcorn again. "Sure ya don’t want any?"

Medic plucked a kernel from the bowl to placate Scout, chewing and swallowing. It tasted distinctly of burned starch, probably the result of Pyro’s unconventional cooking method. “How can you eat zhis?”

"Tastes just fine to me, doc. You grow up in a household with seven older brothers, you’d learn ta eat anythin’, too."

Medic supposed he had a valid point. “Here, hold zhis for a minute.” Without warning he transferred the saw to Scout’s lap, placing it with the blade facing away from him. “I need to extract my earpiece.”

"Want any help with dat? It’s a tiny little chip, ain’t it? You can’t find dat in dere. You’ll drop it an’ den one a’ da raccoons is gonna eat it."

"You are so helpful today." Medic gave him a look, then inserted a finger into his ear, digging around with little success. "Nein. I can do it myself."

"Ya sure? My fingers are smaller den yours."

"I don’t vant you poking around in my ears."

"You got ‘em in _both_ ears?”

"It is a figure of speech, Scout. No. It is only in my right ear."

"Oh, c’mon, doc." Scout set the saw aside and reached for Medic, only to be swatted away with one gloved hand. "Lemme try."

"Scout! I do zhis every single day vithout any trouble."

"Ya actually find dat thing in your ear?"

"Vell, no, I use a forceps."

"Den where is it?"

"…I misplaced it yesterday."

"Lemme take out your earpiece, den. C’mon."

Reluctantly, Medic allowed it, holding still and barely flinching as Scout neatly hooked the earpiece with the tip of his finger. The runner soon presented the little metal chip to Medic, cupping it in the palm of his hand and sporting that triumphant grin he wore far too often. “There ya go, doc. Told ya I could.”

"Ach— danke." Medic decided it was better to thank Scout than to complain any further and took the earpiece from him, setting it into a small velvet-lined box he habitually kept in his pocket. "Now, _vhy_ vere you so insistent to help?”

Scout leaned in, one arm sliding deftly around Medic’s waist. “Got somethin’ I wanna tell ya, and I don’t want the Administrator listenin’ in.”

This was ominous, thought Medic, and oddly reminiscent of some low-budget American production he’d watched once, where one of the female agents insisted that the other agent remove his communications device, then proceeded to mercilessly seduce him. Except the female agent had possessed a certain charm and tact that Scout totally lacked, which made the comparison amusing rather than salacious. “Oh?”

"Yeah." Scout rested his head on Medic’s shoulder, completely and totally aware of how much personal space he was violating. The others wouldn’t care, they were off making a mess of the kitchen or whatever, and it wasn’t often that he got some time with Medic. "You know what you were sayin’ earlier about the company killin’ you off if you disobeyed dem?"

"Ja?"

"I wouldn’t let it happen, doc." Scout squeezed his waist again, making a fist with the other hand and admiring it. "Dey trained me too much, I’m unbeatable now. I’d sneak in an’ make sure dey kept your info in Respawn and den I’d let you out, an’ dey wouldn’t be able to catch me. Or you. ‘Specially you." He was grinning like an idiot now. "Course I’d do dat for anyone on the team, but for you it’s different, you’re the brains behind it all, ya know? We can’t lose ya."

Medic was stymied. What was the proper response to such an offer? “I don’t believe zhat vould happen, but if it does—”

Scout interrupted him, prodding his shoulder again. “Don’t worry. If it does, I’ll be dere, doc. Promise.”

Odd as it was, Medic was touched by the sentiment of it all, but naturally loath to admit it. “Scout, I zhink you read too many comic books. For us, zhere are no real life or death situations. Nozhing like zhat.”

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Scout settled back against the cushions, munching on the popcorn. "But just in case."

Medic sighed. “Give me back my saw.”

Scout handed it to him without another word. But as Medic worked the cloth up and down the blade, buffing the metal to a sheen, he could feel Scout’s gaze occasionally flicking back towards him, accompanied by that same insufferable grin.


End file.
